


After the Fall

by thedevilchicken



Category: Backdraft (1991)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:11:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2821496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A treat for galerian_ash! </p>
<p>Stephen doesn't die, and he and Brian find ways to cope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [galerian_ash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galerian_ash/gifts).



When Stephen recovered, he didn't go back. 

Brian had really thought he would. He almost hoped he would in a way, because what else did his brother really have? He'd lost his wife and his son and that damage was done, completely and utterly irreparable. So, what would he have without his job? 

He'd have a crappy boat with decent speakers and an 8-track that should've been decommissioned back before Brian had even been born. He'd have a solid case of borderline alcoholism, scars and his dress uniform in a suit bag he never opened, and a truck that looked like it'd been driven off a bridge. Twice.

And, he'd have his brother. Kinda. He'd have him alive, at least.

Brian, on the other hand, went back. It turned out firefighting was what he was supposed to do with his life, after all those false starts and missteps, cards on a wall in a bar that told the story of his life before his life ever really began. He'd seen Stephen sometimes in the months that followed, once he got out of the hospital, in his white office shirt and his chewed up old fire boots, kit in hand, shadowing Shadow. He saw him pretty regularly after that, alone, picking through the wreckage of burned-out buildings for the burned-out fire's point of ignition, because it turned out he was good at that and the job seemed to fit though it had seemed unlikely when he took it. He never had left the department completely. Besides, he needed the money; the divorce had come through and the alimony wasn't cheap.

He told himself Stephen didn't want to see him. He told himself that because Stephen said as much when he woke up in the hospital and found Brian was still there a couple of days later, sleep-deprived in a chair across the room. They argued, while Stephen was still groggy, while Brian was pissed off that he hadn't slept, and after Brian had left the room, left the building, stormed the fuck away like Stephen's opinion on the matter actually meant something at that particular moment in time, it was too hard to go back. Then someone told Stephen that Brian had gotten him the damn job and they hadn't talked since, though he hadn't quit. Brian guessed he really did need the money.

And then, there was a fire. There was always a fire because if there weren't a fire then none of them would be in gainful employment, but there was a _fire_. Two of the team wound up in the hospital, nothing more serious than a broken wrist and a dislocated shoulder but the fact of it still fucked him up. Three civilians had died before they'd even got there and Brian breathed in so much smoke that he was throwing up on and off for an hour after the fire was out. He was covered in soot and ash and sweat and a little blood that might or might not have been his, and he was pissed off and tired and Jenny had long since stopped returning his phone calls. He'd fucked that up completely, trying to believe either of them had changed enough for them to be together. They hadn't. He had no one.

Maybe that was why he drove out to the shipyard that night. Maybe that was why he climbed the steps and woke Stephen up some time past midnight. Maybe that was why they screamed and they shouted and they pushed and they shoved until they both went over the rail, Brian first, dragging Stephen with him by one wrist and the front of his shirt. They landed in an awkward heap on the ground below, pebbles jabbing them in several uncomfortable places. Their fights never ended well. They hadn't since Brian had gotten big enough for them to actually _fight_ and not just yell at each other, sometime toward the end of high school. 

Stephen shifted around until he was stretched out on top of him, eyes heavy-lidded from the alcohol in him that was apparently enough that he didn't feel the sting of the rocks in his palms, but not enough to reduce him to total incoherence. Brian didn't try to move. He thought maybe Stephen expected him to and so he didn't just to spite him, just lay there with a big damn rock jammed under his lower back that made him arch up oddly against him. The solid weight of him was familiar. The way he smelled was familiar, cheap soap and beer and oil and ash. This was _all_ too familiar. It had all happened before, though they'd both tried - unsuccessfully - to forget it. 

He hadn't quit the academy because he'd thought he couldn't hack it in the family business, though how firefighting had ended up being that way he honestly didn't know. He hadn't known if he could or not, which he guessed was part of the problem, and he wasn't sure he wanted to find out for sure, and he wasn't sure the world needed both McCaffrey brothers to die just the way their dad had. People always shoved that fucking photo in his face like they were doing him a favour, like it was meant to mean something to him apart from bringing up what he'd felt when his dad had died and he'd stood there like an ass and watched it happen. And so he left, and he thought he'd try something new, find something that was his and not Stephen's and not his dad's, just _his_ , go out to Florida and sell diving equipment or go drive a taxi in Detroit, sell motherfucking log cabins, _anything_. He just wanted to be gone. He needed to be gone.

Stephen hadn't understood, couldn't understand because that was just the way he was, the way he was wired, and that was how they'd argued. They'd always argued but that night was something special, Stephen half-drunk and Brian just so stupidly pissed that his brother was angry with him over this of all things, because Stephen had always made it clear he had no place fighting fires and now here he was bitching him out for quitting just like he'd always wanted him to. They came to blows, clumsy because the room they were in was so small, Stephen threw something, a window got broken though neither one knew who was actually responsible and then Brian's arm was cut somehow and practically poured blood onto the cheap pine coffee table. The apartment was rented. He had a feeling he wasn't getting his deposit back.

That was how the argument ended. Stephen doused his arm in scotch that got all over the floor like that was going to do more than make Brian curse like a sailor, then he wrapped it in the cleanest dishcloth in the place and they went down to the ER. Four goddamn, godforsaken hours of waiting, Stephen cursing at the staff on and off like he gave a damn but pointedly ignoring him between rounds, then they stitched his arm, gave him meds that made him woozy and sent him home. Stephen drove. It wasn't the smartest move they'd ever made but he'd seemed to sober up sometime throughout the shouting.

Stephen cleaned, for values of ‘cleaned' where that meant collecting the pieces of glass from the broken window and slapping up some cardboard with duct tape that was only meant to last until the super sent a glazer to replace it. The table was ruined, and the vague attempt Stephen made at wiping it down only smeared the blood all over the places it hadn't reached before. Then they sat on the couch and didn't look at each other for maybe twenty whole minutes until Stephen finally turned to him. 

"So, what're you gonna do?" he asked, like the past few hours of hospital jackassery and pain meds would've magically changed Brian's mind. 

Brian shrugged. "Leave, I guess."

"Just like that?"

Brian rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Stephen, just like that." Though how it was really _just like that_ when he'd been mulling it over for weeks and had told him as much, well, he wasn't sure. Stephen had always had a damn selective memory when it suited him. He sighed, his head reeling. "What, are you gonna hit me again?"

Stephen looked like that was exactly what he wanted to do. He looked like he wanted to leave. He kissed him instead. 

It was weird. It was really fucking weird. And Brian tried to protest in the start because it was Stephen and fuck, they were _kissing_ , and that was all kinds of screwed up. But there was just such a hard-edged desperation to it that sucked him in, something that'd been brewing for a while though he hadn't really known it till that second, and then he had his hands under Stephen's shirt and Stephen shifted to straddle his thighs on the rickety-ass old couch and that was that, decision made. 

Stephen's body had been familiar to see but not to touch, and they touched. They kept the lights turned off when they got to the bedroom but that didn't make it any simpler because the goddamn streetlights outside his apartment were practically bright as solar flares even through the curtains, flashing across Stephen's tanned skin, across his icy blue fucking eyes. He was all hard angles, all jaw and hips and shoulder blades, he weighed a freaking ton, was nothing like any woman Brian had ever been with and that made him laugh out loud and made Stephen scowl at him for it. Then they were naked and Stephen bit down at his shoulder, sucked like he wanted to leave a damn hickey and it was weird because it was Stephen and it was fine because it was.

They lay there side by side when it was over, after everything, silent except for their laboured breath. Stephen dressed in the relative dark and Brian pretended not to watch him do it. When he left, he didn't look back for a second. Brian was gone three days later and Stephen didn't even try to stop him. But Brian was wearing a mark by his collarbone that hadn't faded away entirely until the month had ended. He hadn't forgotten that.

That night had hung between them for years. There'd been times when Brian had tried to get past it but Stephen had never been interested in getting past it, wasn't interested in anything except fucking up his relationship with Helen and maybe getting himself killed on the job as if that were poetic or somehow inevitable. And so he hadn't really been surprised when Stephen didn't show at his academy graduation and wasn't surprised when he tried to screw up his whole potential career. He wasn't surprised by the awkwardness, though they tried to pretend that was all because of Brian's foolish life choices and Stephen's general disapproval of them, and not the fact they'd screwed around that night and had no idea how to handle it, definitely not on top of all the other shit there was between them. 

What surprised him was the relationship they'd almost had, like they were brothers again after all that time. What surprised him was that Stephen was apparently willing to die for him, in spite of everything, in spite of himself. He was surprised by the way Stephen still wanted to protect him, had spent nights getting pretty damn drunk as he looked back through their mom's old photo album, on everything they'd had and had been, looked back on high school before Brian had put on a massive growth spurt and when Stephen had still looked out for him. Stephen was the high school football hero, played some hockey on the side, was a real team player and everyone had loved him for it. Brian swam and ran track just to stay away from him and his legendary fucking reputation. Being Stephen McCaffrey's little brother had never been an easy thing.

He was almost expecting the kiss that came next, there in the shipyard, the taste of beer on Stephen's mouth and the warmth of his hands, the way he pressed against him. And it was desperate just like the first time had been, hard and messy and teeth against lips, and they pushed and pulled each other to their feet in clumsy fits and starts, shirts abandoned along the way, Stephen's mouth on him and his fingers at his belt before Brian shoved him back, shoved him away. Stephen's face flashed angry then ashamed in the space of a split second, looked almost lost, almost fucking bewildered, and he reached for his shirt on the ground. Brian kicked it away and he shook his head. 

"Just get on the goddamn boat, Stephen," he said. 

To his surprise, Stephen only paused for a second before he actually did exactly as he said. Brian followed close behind.

There was an awkward pause as they stood there on the deck, where Stephen tried to look absolutely anywhere but at him and Brian got slowly closer, right into his personal space until he had to back up to avoid touching him. Of course, the only place to back up into was the closed cabin door and then Brian got in closer still. His hand at Stephen's jaw, gripping his chin a fraction harder than he knew was necessary, was what it took to draw his gaze back to him.

"You're not just gonna act like this never happened," Brian said, hotly, as he let go of Stephen's face, looking him in the eye. "Not this time."

It was a statement, not a question. Stephen clenched his jaw, released and clenched again, looked like he wanted to protest the exact opposite sentiment, or hit him or both. But then he nodded. 

"You're gonna move out of dad's lousy goddamn boat and move into my lousy apartment." 

Stephen rested his head back against the cabin door, like all the fight had gone right out of him. He nodded as best he could against the peeling paint over half-rotted wood.

"Good." Brian took a step back. He had no idea where this was coming from; he had no idea why Stephen was being so damn agreeable. "Come by tomorrow around 10. And bring your shit."

Stephen smiled the world's fakest smile and called him a jackass. Stephen blew him a kiss as he turned to leave, and he called him a prick. He had no idea if he'd come. He wasn't even sure he wanted him to or not.

The knock at the door the next morning took him by surprise. It wasn't even 9.30 and he was still in the damn shower, which Stephen was probably going to find absolutely freaking hysterical, so he stepped out, wrapped a towel around his waist and went to the door. And yeah, it was Stephen, standing there with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and another in his hand like that was everything he owned in life, aside from the boat and his crappy truck. Maybe it was. Brian didn't own much more, and he'd have traded his piece of shit car for Stephen's truck any day.

Stephen raised his brows at Brian's current state of dress, or lack thereof. "Are you gonna invite me in or are we just gonna stand here all day?" he asked, watching him drip. 

Brian gave a half-hearted shrug and stood aside to let him in, closed the door behind them both and locked it. There was a spare key Brian had left out on the coffee table just in case and Stephen eyed it. Brian pretended it wasn't there as he dripped slightly soapy water onto the carpet. There was still enough shampoo in his hair to drizzle into the corner of one eye and make it sting like a son of a bitch and Stephen just turned on the spot, looking around, appraising the place like he'd had anything better going on while he was living on the boat. And yes, okay, so the place was next to the L track, the heat was unreliable, he'd lost three forks down the back of the couch and the neighbours upstairs liked to come in and screw loudly around 2am every morning, energetic to the point where Brian sometimes wondered if the ceiling would just collapse. But, it was better than trying to keep warm in the approaching Chicago winter on a boat that was far from weathertight, up on blocks in a wide-open dry dock.

"I like what you've done with the place," Stephen said, glancing back at him over his shoulder once he'd tossed his bags onto the couch. He gestured at the blank magnolia walls with the watermarked corners and the sparse, beaten-up furniture, and Brian flipped him off. Stephen snickered. And they looked at each other, Stephen turned back around to face him, and Brian kept on dripping on the damn carpet. The muscles worked in Stephen's jaw and he shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans like he didn't know what else to do with them, like maybe the pose would make him look confident when he was clearly anything but, when his comfort zone was back on a boat miles away. 

Brian almost laughed but he took a slow, deep breath and fought down that urge instead. Then he untucked the towel at his waist and pulled it away with a quirk of his brows, hoping that looked challenging. Apparently he didn't care that the blinds were open and if a train went by right then he'd potentially be exposing himself to half the passengers, and Stephen gave a sort of chuff of something halfway between amusement and consternation.

He couldn't look at him but he couldn't _not_ look at him and watching Stephen fluctuate between the two the way he did should've been amusing, except it was pretty much just sad considering how sure of himself and of everything else he'd always been before. In the end, Brian just tossed the towel at him and turned to head back to his shower. 

"What do you want me to do?" Stephen asked. 

Brian paused in the bathroom doorway, hands gripping the frame, though he pointedly didn't turn back to look at him. "Whatever you want to do, Stephen," he replied. There were faint wet footprints on the carpet and he scowled at them. "You've never had a problem doing whatever the hell you wanted before now." 

He frowned, tense right through his shoulders, clenched his jaw just the way Stephen always did. Then he turned again and looked at him, pointedly, on the verge of something bitter and angry and regrettable; Stephen was still holding the towel Brian had thrown like he had no idea how to react or what to do, and for once Brian knew this wouldn't be a fight. He kind of wished it could be.

"You know what?" he said. "Fuck that. Get in the goddamn shower, Stephen. And stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself, would you? You're not dad and you're not dead. Jesus."

He went back directly to the shower, got back in under the water, smacked the tiled wall with the heel of his hand and cursed a blue streak under his breath as he squeezed his eyes shut. Thirty seconds later, the shower door opened. Stephen stepped right up behind him, pressed to his back and rested his hands at his hips, rested his forehead down between his shoulder blades. A moment passed, tentative, then he wrapped his arms around Brian's waist. He sighed against his wet skin as the spray soaked them both.

"Jerk," Stephen muttered. 

"Dick," Brian replied. 

Stephen chuckled. Brian smiled. 

Stephen had the day off work but Brian's shift started just an hour or so from then. Once they'd towelled off and dressed, Brian pointed Stephen to the spare room, the miniscule space he'd not bothered clearing out, and he hadn't changed the sheets on the barely stable single bed because he hadn't been sure at all that Stephen was going to keep his word and actually turn up. He went out, his car mercifully started and he made his way to the 17 just like he did every day, except that day Stephen was in his apartment and might or might not still be when he got back in. No one really got why he was such a weird blend of cheery and uptight all day. He guessed that was a good thing.

He was there when he got back in, socked feet propped up on the coffee table, beer in hand as he watched some random reality bullshit on TV like somehow that was interesting, and Brian could only guess he was waiting for a game to start. They both liked hockey, though Brian was so turned around with dates and times that he had no damn clue who'd be playing or when, though obviously it nothing live since it was past 2am by then - it had to be, the upstairs neighbours were going at it hammer and tongs. He just dumped his crap by the door, took off his boots and walked over. Stephen looked up. Brian settled himself down astride Stephen's thighs, hands on the back of the couch, totally in the way of Stephen's view of the television.

"I was pretty sure you'd go back to the boat," he said.

Stephen shrugged and passed him his beer; Brian took a swig though he knew that wasn't the intention, Stephen gave a momentary scowl and Brian bent back to put it on the table.

"Yeah," Stephen said, "but the TV reception's for shit down there."

He brought his hands to Brian's waist, slipped them under his shirt. Brian raised his brows, glanced up toward the ceiling. 

"They been going for a while?"

"Pretty much non-stop for the last half hour. Should I expect a show every night?"

Brian smiled wryly. "Yeah, I guess I should've mentioned they're pretty loud."

Stephen shrugged. "Yeah," he said, "but I bet we can be louder."

They weren't, of course they weren't. Brian had never been great at staying quiet but trying to be seemed to heighten it all somehow, made it a challenge so Stephen had to get creative to wring out a sound. He was all big, teasing smiles and his rough hands were everywhere, making Brian laugh; he ducked down to suck his cock so suddenly that Brian almost groaned but bit it back. Stephen's mouth on him was possessive, the look in his eyes mischievous but there was something hotter beneath it. Brian guessed Stephen had finally come to terms with the fact he didn't need protecting anymore, not even from him; of course, that didn't mean he'd ever really stop trying.

They slept in the same bed nearly every night after, when Brian wasn't out with the 17. Stephen was all elbows and he hogged the blankets and Brian cursed a lot while he considered smothering him with a pillow. They watched hockey on TV and they drank less beer while they did it, cooked pasta badly in the miniscule kitchen and argued over whose turn it was to clean the microwave. No one cared that they were living together except to say Stephen seemed more cheerful since he'd moved in, or that they must've worked shit out. Brian guessed they had. 

Stephen was different as time went by, quicker to smile, still quick to joke, maybe even happy on a good day though he still knew how to brood. In a year or so, Helen finally relented and they taught Sean to skate in the winter, on the outdoor rink that had sprung up near where they'd grown up, watched his peewee hockey games the year after that. Stephen even learned how to be borderline civil with Helen's new husband, though he cursed him to hell and back as soon as they were out of earshot, and he scowled half-heartedly when Brian laughed at him for it. They got a better place together, closer to work, drank with the guys from the 17 and their wives and their girlfriends, sometimes made up unsuccessful dates just to make it look good but no one really gave a damn about their personal lives anyway. Stephen snored; Brian wore earplugs.

Brian learned to cook because Stephen couldn't; Stephen leaned up against his back as he stood at the stove, tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans like that wasn't going to be hindrance and they'd talk like that sometimes and sometimes they wouldn't. It turned out Stephen liked that Brian was taller, but liked to show him he was still stronger. Brian learned to cope with that. 

Then, 5 or 6 years later, Brian made lieutenant. Stephen actually seemed proud, over and above his usual concern, said he'd probably make captain one day because unlike his brother he knew when to keep his damn mouth shut. They had a drink with the guys and Stephen ruffled his hair in that fond-irritating way he liked to do sometimes. They went home and ordered pizza that they didn't eat till morning; Stephen sucked him and fucked him and teased him throughout it instead, then got all serious and dragged him over on top, gripped his shoulders. He looked like he was about to say something as they lay there, as he looked up at him, but he just gave a lopsided grin instead and they went another round. 

When Brian went out to work, Stephen never told him to be careful. He'd just toss him his keys and remind him about the game, baseball or hockey or basketball, football, whatever was in season. Now Stephen had stopped trying to be their dad, he had the energy to be everything else he could be; Brian realised, not too late, that he hadn't been the only one who'd been struggling to find himself. 

And Brian would come home, and they'd be happy in what they had. That was enough for both of them.


End file.
